


Pulse

by Oneofthepoisoned



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 20:34:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4406549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oneofthepoisoned/pseuds/Oneofthepoisoned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I-is this what it was like? For you? When I – Oh God, John. I'm so sorry. I am so sorry."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pulse

**Author's Note:**

> This is based of a tumblr post I cannot for the life of me find, if anyone recognizes the prompt please let me know!
> 
> Note added later: I've made an actual story of this! It gave me the idea so I figured I'd roll with it. It's called "Welcome the Crash."

Heat of the battle. Lundy is incapacitated. I’ve won – no scratch that – we’ve won. 

Wait. 

Something’s gone wrong. A shout of pain. A shot ringing through the air.

John. 

No time for analysis: only a time for action. I call out to John, turning to see what I missed. A companion, lying elusive, hidden by the shadows of the nearby building, holding a gun.

Of course, I should have known Lundy would have backup. But this man is unknown to me. 

John falls, surprise written on his face, and his eyes lock to mine. His head slams on the concrete – possible concussion. Not good. Wound possibly fatal. 

Fatal. 

I pull my spare gun out from my waistcoat, form perfect shot and fire: Instant death. 

Too much blood surrounds John. At least a pint, seeping steadily from the wound in John’s stomach. 

Pulse? Check. 

It’s a pity Lundy’s companion had to die so quickly – I should have gotten the chance to hurt him longer. John wouldn’t approve. 

Pulse? Faint.

This isn’t right. John shouldn’t have been hurt. 

Pulse? Barely.

My vision is blurring now. Why? 

Pulse? 

Pulse?

“John!” 

This is my fault. 

Tears ensue. _That’s why._

No pulse. Prognosis grim. Hard to come back from a wound with this magnitude. Shooter used a thirty-eight caliber bullet. 

Inspect him. 

Bullet lodged in stomach, no exit hole – close to liver but not quite there. Blood loss rapidly increasing. Possible concussion and dislocated right shoulder from his fall. No heartbeat, no pulse. No John. 

Resuscitation needed. Where’s my doctor? 

Press firmly down, one hundred beats per minute till heart starts. 

Breathing heavy now. Why? Must be shock. Can’t go into shock, not right now. Ignore symptoms for John. 

Vision impaired. Momentary break to wipe eyes. Continue again, this time with more strength. Must bring my doctor back. 

Mouth to mouth seems necessary. Anything to get him back. This isn’t the way I wanted our lips to meet for the first time. 

Flash of lightning. How fitting. 

More pumping, still nothing. Two minutes have passed, why isn’t he responding? I must be doing something wrong. 

Again.

Again.

Nothing.

A broken sound falls from my lips. 

This isn’t right.

Additional action needed. Unlikely to cause effect, but anything for John. 

“J-John!” Strange – voice crack. “Please, come back. You can’t leave me here alone!” 

One final pump, too much time has passed. Begging was my final resort. Seems ineffective: I thought so. 

Check pulse.

Pulse? 

The world is cold, John is warm. 

Pulse? 

More begging. My voice tight with grief. Haven’t felt like this since Redbeard. 

Pulse? Faint but there. 

A sob, me? 

Relief. I want to hold him. Can’t do that. 

The ground is wet, a light rain cast over the sky. John opens his eyes, which wander lazily in a squinted, confused daze until he finally finds me. Blood is thick on the ground – medics will arrive in approximately two minutes, enough time to save John. 

“Sh-Sherlock?” Stutter to be expected after severe trauma. 

His arm travels over the ground in a pathetic attempt to touch me. Strange. Is he offering comfort? The thought is almost enough to make me laugh. 

Almost.

I stare, shock still woven in my bones. Rocking. Who’s rocking? Knees against my chest, tears pitter on the ground. I’m rocking. I must look a sight. 

My voice is a whisper as I speak, “I-is this what it was like? For you? When I – Oh God, John. I’m so sorry. I am so sorry.” 

Medics arrive. 

He’ll be okay.

I will not.


End file.
